


Dank

by agarina_amigara



Series: shotgunning!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: Angst, College, Dirty Talk, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agarina_amigara/pseuds/agarina_amigara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes his love for weed to Stanford but he doesn't take his brother. Sometimes in the dark with r&b playing he wishes he had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dank

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a sequel to [shotgunning without the front seat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/739880) but it can be read alone. 
> 
> Inspired by Frank Ocean's "Thinkin Bout You" and a Skype conversation I had with [Amanda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Enamourous).  
> The songs mentioned in the work are "I've Been Loving You Too Long", "These Arms of Mine", and "Pain In my Heart" all by Otis Redding.

The few friends he’s made since he got to Stanford like to call it his “down time.”

Sam thinks it would be more fitting to call it his “Dean time.”

He’s got his arms crossed behind his head, eyes shot through with crimson, and mouth feeling like it’s packed full of the stuffing that came spilling out of the cloth rabbit he carried religiously when he was four.

He gets like this when he thinks about Dean. 

He gets high.

Four hours ago he had met up with some guy named Reggie. Reggie wanted to be called R-Dog. In Sam’s phone his name was still Reggie. This lanky dude with pale skin and pale, cornrowed, hair had offered Sam a free copy of his mixtape. Right. Because obviously Sam wanted his roommate to hear him listening to some drug dealing Eminem wannabe. He didn’t bother telling Reggie that when he was stoned he usually listened to masters of r&b and soul like Otis Redding and Al Green. As black as Reggie obviously thought he was, Sam doubted he actually knew about the history of African American music. 

So Sam had just smiled, droned out “just let me get a dime, man,” and pulled a crumpled ten dollar bill out of his pocket. He recognized that he shouldn’t be blowing the few hundred bucks his brother had pressed into his hand before he stormed off to the bus station (“Just fucking take it, Sam, I’m gonna be so fucking worried, so fucking sick”) but he needed this right now. 

He needed to be reminded of Dean whilst somehow still forgetting about him.

The walk back to his dorm from the Meyer Library didn’t usually take very long with lengthy legs like his but today he took his time. The California sun kissed girls on campus don’t catch his attention nearly as much as he knows they should, but it doesn’t bother him. Sam knows he can fake it. He can pretend he’s interested in long thin legs (legs that bow at the never touching knees). Knows he can gawk with his straight guy and lesbian friends over a great rack (flat smooth pecs with a horned amulet hanging in between). He’s still a teenage dude. He knows about pussy (6.8 inches of solid flesh that ever so slightly curves to the left and tastes like the salt they pour on skeletons) and he knows how to be dazzled by a female smile (that fucking grin that got him in so much trouble before he dropped out and got his GED). 

Sam’s not oblivious. 

He came here to be normal. Girls are part of “normal” so he learns quick, fast and in a hurry that he’s got to notice them. 

Flash forward back to now. The dime is gone and, metaphorically speaking, so is Sam. Otis Redding is crooning about how he’s been loving someone too late to stop now and Sam’s rolling his red eyes, thinking “fuck off, Otis” before he remembers something about respecting the dead. 

He doesn’t know why he listens to this type of music when he’s stoned, he never listens to it any other time, but there’s something about it that drags him even deeper under and he needs that. He needs it (like he needs green eyes, freckles, spider leg long lashes) like he needs a fucking hole in his head. 

It’s right around two songs later when he starts to feel it in the pit of him. That twitchy-hipped feeling of needing to get off. That twitchy-hipped feeling of needing Dean. Most days he can push it down. When he’s sitting in the tenth row of his World Civ class thinking about Dean’s lips wrapped around his dick and Professor Nell mentions the effects incestuous relationships have had on modern monarchy and the girl two seats down pulls a screwed up face and mumbles “um, ew” under her breath before jotting down a line of notes, you bet your ass he can push it down. 

But right now he can’t. 

Right now his fingers are itching towards his cell phone, towards the contact simply listed as “D”. 

He’s done this once before. The first fucking week he was here. Dean had been so fucking ecstatic, “Sammy? Sammy, oh fuck are you okay?” bubbling out of his mouth and into the receiver before he’d heard that first moan of “Dean, please” and yeah maybe Dean had lost it, mumbled some shit about how he was in a bar and “just let me get out to the car, just give me a minute Sam, fuck”. That had ended up with Dean screaming, fuming over Sam’s “this can’t happen again” and the cum that had gotten away from his cupped hand and onto the dash of the Impala. Looking back Sam knows it was a stupid thing to say. But he knows he’s about to pay for it. Again. 

The phone rings so many times Sam considers just hanging up, rolling over, jacking it into a sock or some shit and just going to sleep. 

The phone rings so many times Sam’s sure Dean probably has some girl’s legs over his shoulders in a cheap motel room right about now.

The phone rings so many times Sam is pulling it away from the side of his head when he catches something that sounds like “what the hell do you want?”

Not like he could be dying or anything.

“I just want you,” he sighs. He turns the volume dial on the boombox next to the bed down, but not so far down that he can’t hear Otis singing “ _these arms of mine, they are yearning…_ ” and then Sam’s giving a short hitch of his breath, knowing how many times that sound has driven Dean up out of his own skin and into his brother’s. “Just wanna hear your voice is all.”

“Not now, Sam,” Dean retorts and Sam can hear it in his voice that what he means is “not now, not ever” and fuck did he really screw it up that bad? 

“Please, Dean,” he’s urging. He can hear Dean scoffing. 

“That’s how we started this last time,” Dean says. “You can at least feed me a fresh line.”

Yeah, he definitely screwed up that bad. 

But when in doubt, beg it out. 

“Please, Dean, I want it so bad,” he whines in the same voice he used the first time Dean actually fucked him. He’d looked back over his shoulder to where Dean was kneeling behind him and said those precise words and god if he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that Dean decided that he was _definitely_ going to cross that line and fuck his little brother’s ass. 

Dean remembers. Of course Dean remembers, and Sam knows it when he stutters over the next “no” that comes out of his mouth. Sam’s pressing forward, so sure he’ll get his way that he’s kicking off his pants, panting “Come on, man. I’m really fucked up and this is gonna be hazy tomorrow anyway,” maybe not the best thing to say but oh well, “please, Dean,”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean grits out and it shouldn’t go straight to Sam’s dick but it does. He can’t seem to get his pants past his knees with one hand and he’s saying “fuck, Dean, hold on,” and he swears he hears his brother growl, actually fucking growl, before he sits his phone on the edge of the bed to strip himself of his t-shirt and sweats. 

“Back,” he whispers, and the sigh Dean lets out sounds like he’s either so glad or so miserable about it that he could die. Either way, Sam’s killing Dean. 

(In a few years he’ll find out that that’s exactly true when a man named Jake says he cut through Sam’s spinal cord, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. Right now all there is to Sam is the sound that Dean’s end of the phone is making, the ruffling sound of clothes removal and Sam feels like a kid-a normal kid, not the kind he was-on Christmas morning. Instead of a Nintendo or set of Transformers Sam is getting Dean, all wrapped up with a pretty red bow.)

Sam’s trailing his fingers over his slowly hardening cock, just ghosting the pads of his fingertips over the flesh and he’s telling Dean “I think about your mouth, fuck, constantly. In class, sometimes I think if I want it bad enough I’ll look under the table and I’ll see your mouth all the way down over my dick, tears pouring out of your eyes and fuck you’re fighting so hard to keep me in your throat and you just, fuck, Dean,” he’s totally hard now, getting harder even still when Dean lets out a gasp, that kind of shaky breath that lets Sam know he’s already started touching himself. 

Sam’s reaching over to his bedside table to pull out a small tub of Vaseline when Dean tells him “There’s no way I’d let you fuck my throat,” tells him, around a groan, “I’ve got no idea how many people you’ve been letting fuck you since you got there,” he pauses before “there” like he can’t will his mouth to wrap around the reminder that Sam isn’t near him. 

Sam wonders what Dean _could_ wrap his mouth around. 

“There’s been no one but you,” Sam’s responding, fighting to keep down a moan when the harsh heat of his slicked hand goes down the base of his dick to cup his balls before tugging from the angle that Dean would if he were here. He knows it’s pitiful and god, it’s a poor substitute, but if he twists his palm a certain way before sliding back down it feels like home, feels like Dean. 

His brother is better at phone sex than he is and Sam knows it. Other than that call his first week on campus there’s only been one time they’ve done this before, separated on a hunt and starved for each other, minutes from coming when Dean had gotten a call (dad yelling “DEAN! I FOUND THE THING’S LAIR!”) and that ruined everything, including Sam’s hard on. Knowing that Dean’s only heard him come like this once makes him shiver, makes him more nervous than when Shelby Daniels had sent him a candygram for Valentine’s Day in 5th grade. 

He wonders if Dean will still be able to hear the way he holds his breath before he comes. 

A huff of air from Dean’s end of the phone snaps Sam out of his internal monologue. “Please tell me you’re naked,” Dean’s breathing and Sam rushes to answer, whispers “Yeah. Yeah, Dean,” dragging his hand back up and saying “That’s what I-… I left for earlier,”

God, Dean’s got him tripping over his words already. Both of them have hardly said anything and Dean’s probably not even hard but here Sam is- virgin nervous.

“I want you to get on your knees,” Dean says and well, that’s new. 

“My knees?” Sam questions, hand ceasing its ministrations. He can practically hear Dean rolling his eyes. 

“I didn’t stutter,” Dean replies, “We both know how much you like being on them anyway, don’t you Sammy?”

Sam can’t argue there.

Somewhere in the back of his head he prays to every angel in heaven that his roommate doesn’t decide to come home early. Seeing Sam with his ass in the air and panting the name that he was told belonged to his brother might just give him enough incentive to move out. 

Sam’s shifting over onto his stomach, pulling his knees up, pressing his phone into the crook of his neck. It’s uncomfortable, but then again so was fitting both of his and Dean’s sweating bodies into the back of the Impala on more than one occasion. He likes the exposed feeling he gets from this situation, from being so open, even if technically no one is here to appreciate it. 

“You know what I’d do if I were there and you were is this position, don’t you?” Dean asks. It sends a tremor through Sam, who can’t get his hand back on his dick fast enough. He’s going to answer but Dean is barreling forward, telling him “You’re already spread open, but not enough. I’d have to grip your ass in my hands, spread your cheeks and,” there’s a groan from the other end of the line and Sam’s considering dropping out just so he can be fucked by Dean on the regular again, “I’d bury my face in your ass, Sam. Get you wet like a fucking girl. Worked out on my tongue, loose and begging. You know I like you begging.”

“Yeah, yeah,” is all Sam can say and he can almost feel Dean’s tongue. It makes him rotate his hips in the air, nasty and unashamed. 

“I wanna hear it. Been too long, Sammy. No one begs like you, no one,” and Sam’s panting now. He ignores the implications that there have been others in Dean’s life since he left. He ignores everything, even the faint croon coming from his radio (“ _said I want you to come back, come back, come back baby, til I get enough…_ ”); ignores everything except his hand sliding up and down his dick and the panting coming from the other end of the phone. “Beg for me, Sammy.” 

It comes out of his mouth like acidic vomit, stinging and crackling, a string of “please, Dean” and “want you fucking me so bad” and “god _please_ ’’ and “fuck me fuck me fuck me” and he’s losing rhythm, sliding his hand down to tug at his balls, skimming his fingers over the expanse of his perineum and pressing down just a bit and fuck there it is. Sam drops his other hand down, he’s sweating and his hair is plastered between the moist screen of his phone and his face, gripping his dick while tugging at his balls and scratching at his thighs with the other. It’s awkward jacking with his left hand but so good, unpredictable and a little rough and just a little more Dean than it is with his right.

Dean’s saying something now, something like “so fucking tight, squeezing the base of my dick, taking it, taking it all” but Sam can hardly hear over his heartbeat and the way his ear is pressed into the phone so hard it cuts off the sound. Sam’s making noises he’d be ashamed of if he weren’t so worked up, little squeaks and keening moans, “uh, uh” sounds and whimpers. He knows Dean doesn’t mind, his brother likes it when he’s loud.

His brother.

His _brother_.

Sam loses it then, thinking of Dean fucking his fist spliced with images from his childhood- Dean wiping sweat off his fever riddled forehead, Dean making him Lucky Charms, Dean absentmindedly chewing on the horns of his amulet in the passenger seat of the Impala, Dean Dean Dean _Dean_ and it takes him a second to realize that string of his brother’s name is actually coming out of his mouth as he’s pounding down into his fist jerkily. Dean’s still talking, saying “come for me, Sammy, don’t stop, don’t stop coming,” like Sam can fucking control it, like Sam can control anything that comes to Dean. 

Sam sucks in a breath, holding it down in his chest and squeezing his eyes tight and Dean, knowing that means Sam is coming, is groaning loud now. Sam can feel his eyes rolling in his head and cum shooting out his dick and onto his fist and the bed underneath him. During all of this his thighs have spread so wide that he’s almost flat on his stomach. It aches full through his body, the chords of muscle in his legs that he would know the names of if he wasn’t so far gone straining tight and fuck it’s gonna hurt when this is over. 

The breath in Sam’s lungs floods out in a _whoosh_ and he’s too far into his to really get any satisfaction from stroking his dick but then it happens. 

Dean’s orgasm hits. 

Sam hasn’t forgotten what a force Dean is when he comes but god it must be something that bears reminding. Dean starts groaning his name, over and over and over and Sam’s thinking he could die like this. Seconds away from coming down, head swimming (whether it’s from the pot or the orgasm, who knows), and with the person who’s been his brother father mother _home_ moaning “Sam Sam Sammy Sam” in his ear. 

After one last drawn out “ _Sam_ ” from Dean the line goes quiet. 

Sam’s panting, body still straining to hold himself up what little it is, and as much as he wants to he can’t make himself say anything. He suddenly wants to be angry at Dean. He wants to blame Dean for answering the phone, for letting him keep that goddamn Very Best of Otis Redding cd, for getting him high in that foggy motel room when he was 15, for making them more fucked up then they were from the get go. He wants to be mad because Dean let him leave even though he tried to make him stay. Wants to yell and scream, wants to say “why did you let dad raise us this way?!” but then again Dean did more of the raising then John ever had. 

So he says all he can think to say.

“I’ll talk to you later, Dean.”

It’s not how he wants it to sound- open and inviting, a question mark at the end of a too long sentence. It sounds how he needs it to sound. Final. A “The End” in flowing script.

Dean tells him to be safe and then Sam’s left with the dial tone. It hums over the whisper of Otis singing and blends into the melody like it should have been there from the start. And maybe it should.

Sam turns up the radio and sings along.


End file.
